We motes
grind stones,
roll wheels, sail boats,
and make much mulch.
Life longs. Hands cry,
face rests. Door flings,
chair falls, steps skip
mad blest.
Winds sigh
night's wings upheld
moon looms,
starshine
warps weft,
blind rushes
meld
to you,
from mine.
And then,
bereft.
1 comment:
This is a revision of
"The coming due"
We motes
grind stones,
roll wheels, sail boats,
and make much mulch.
You role, I act.
Ad hoc, no script.
Life longs, death looms.
Dumb ass. Quick wit.
Fake arts, real tries.
Parts whole.
Sums part, knees jerk.
Prose flies.
Halts grind.
Breaks heart.
Blocks break one's mind.
On you.
Hands cry.
Face rests.
Chair falls,
door flings steps skip mad blest to fly.
Winds sigh
night's wings upheld,
moon looms starshine
warps weft, blind
delves.
To you.
Your room.
Once mine.
So far, long lost.
One last long view.
Before the cost.
Post a Comment